Totally Controlla
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Or else known as: Why Sherlock Won't Eat With John Anymore. John's sick. Well. It starts that way, anyhow. T for a safety net.
1. Chapter 1

**Totally Controlla-**

John felt sick. Utterly, terribly, disgustingly... sick.

And the fact that he spent the morning in the bathroom, leaving him weaker than a newborn kitten, and mentally unable to summon the strength to call into the surgery to say he wouldn't be in, made him feel even... more sick.

He shivered. To be sure, he had been shivering all morning, from cold or from vomiting, he didn't know. But he had been shivering, and now it wasn't just his stomach that hurt.

The sick feeling punched him in the gut again and he locked his fingers around the toilet until they turned white as the porcelain, and he stayed there until he lost track of the seconds and the pain and the ick factor and the _shivering_.

He moaned, dropping his forehead with a dull _thunk_ onto the toilet seat. He didn't care about the germs now. Hell, he had stopped caring about the germs _long _ago. If he could just stop _puking long enough_-

"John?"

John flinched, too hard, his head snapping up and sending the world into a dizzying motion. It was all such an overreaction; Sherlock's knock and voice on the other side of the bathroom door were exceedingly quiet.

"Sh..." John had been aiming to, well, he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say past 'Sherlock', but he imagined it would have been something with dignity. Probably like moaning his flatmate's name and flapping his hands in lieu of an actual response.

There was a length of silence outside the door, making John wonder if Sherlock had left. God, he didn't even know _why _he cared; Sherlock wasn't going to be able to do anything for him.

"... Pardon the lack of privacy," came a response not much later before Sherlock swung the bathroom door open. John tried to sit up, to, at least, _attempt_ to make himself more presentable before Sherlock's analyzing gaze swept across the bathroom, but he couldn't really... pull it off.

Sherlock's clear eyes took in the scene briefly. John tried to ignore the feeling that he was being looked down upon, literally, in such a state. He also tried to ignore the feeling of his stomach rebelling again; unluckily, he wasn't quite successful with the second attempt.

"You're sick," Sherlock stated when John had resurfaced from his sense of sickness.

"Sherlock," John moaned, his forehead once again finding a home against the toilet seat. He was doing his best to control his breathing, but his shoulders were heaving from the effort of the vomiting and he was barely getting enough time to catch his breath otherwise. Not to exclude the fact that he was moaning his flatmate's name like he could help him. Because he _still _couldn't.

"What do you want me to do?"

There it was, that inability to actually help because Sherlock was not a creature of sentiment.

John groaned again, pushing himself away from the toilet. "Surgery... can't go in..."

"Yes, so?"

"Sher... call them..."

"You want me... to call your place of occupation. To tell them that you are profusively vomiting in such an amount that will prevent you from going into work."

"Go...!" John demanded weakly, reaching for the countertop. His hand missed purchase and, for one terribly sickening moment, he was sure that he was going to meet the floor in a very uncomfortable way. But steady hands clamped around his arm and pulled him to his feet. He slumped against Sherlock's body in a way that would have severely embarrassed him had he had his normal senses about him, but instead, he was too worried about doing something more embarrassing, like throwing up on the consulting detective. That was just a definite item on his _not-to-do-list_.

"You have a fever," Sherlock commented, although he didn't utter anything past that in the ways of rude or insulting. Cool fingers were pressed against John's forehead and, for a moment, he was transported back to being six and his parents taking care of him. But the somewhat perfect illusion vanished as pain seized up his stomach and he instinctively wrapped his arm that wasn't clutching at Sherlock around it. "Abdominal pain," Sherlock continued, his voice only having the inkling of interest. "Vomiting, severe, it seems. The best assumption here is food poisoning." He paused. "The last you ate was at the diner with me, correct?"

John groaned in response, clinging childishly to Sherlock's dressing gown. He realized, that with the clinging and grumbling, they were getting absolutely nowhere, and John had no inkling desire to _spoon_ with Sherlock, or whatever the hell it was they were doing, in the bathroom all morni-

"We're not spooning."

John laughed at Sherlock's bland statement, at Sherlock guessing his thoughts. The pain sent spasms straight to his stomach and the sink was the closest thing asides from the floor or Sherlock. So, John went for the sink and it was only Sherlock that kept him standing.

Sherlock sighed heavily, a sound of disgust. John rubbed the back of his mouth weakly, shivering hard as he pulled away from Sherlock, deciding to use the countertop as a support.

"Go," John grumbled, waving Sherlock off. "So... inconveniencing..." He knew Sherlock's personality; he shouldn't have been distraught at Sherlock's reaction to his sickness. But. John was sick. John didn't feel like being rational.

"Well, at least you've managed to grasp that concept," Sherlock replied with the air of his usual snobbish self, turning and brushing out of the bathroom. It took John a good fifteen minutes to work up the strength to follow him out.

The detective was sprawled on the couch, a magazine, upside-down, in his hands. John took one mildly irritated glance at him before he sank into his chair, swallowing hard. He needed water. He knew all too well that he was spiraling dangerously towards the brinks of dehydration, but water wouldn't even stay down. Which meant paracetamol wouldn't stay down. Which meant, no relief.

He hadn't been slumped in the chair for five minutes when the feeling from all morning came back, and, by this time, he was fairly sure that he wasn't going to make it back to the bathroom again. He gagged and swallowed hard, pressing a hand over his mouth in a non-delicate way.

Sherlock seemed to swear, suddenly unfreezing from his position. He slammed the magazine onto the table and stepped over it, quickly making his way to the kitchen. John watched his every movement for a sense of a distraction, although he was terribly grateful when, after creating much noise and more mess from tearing items out from under the sink, Sherlock thunked a bucket down on his lap.

"Bucket. Water. Sleep."

"The last two would be nice," John replied, curling his fingers around the bucket that he was trying not to think about what may have been in it.

"I could make you," Sherlock replied. It wasn't so much of a joke, as a threat, John realized, but he smiled faintly anyway.

"Thanks for the support, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sinking onto the couch again. "I don't see why you insist on letting this run your day."

"Maybe because I can't control it?" John guessed, trying to shrink upon himself as he shivered hard again.

"Stupid," Sherlock muttered. "Of _course_ you can control it. It's totally controlla-" The voice came to a sudden stop and John opened his eyes (although he didn't recall closing them) to look at the detective. Sherlock had gone quiet, which wasn't wholly unheard of, but he had also gone just a touch paler.

"What was that?" John asked, frowning slightly.

Sherlock didn't look back at John, but he stood, gracefully, as he ever was, and walked calmly out through the kitchen and towards the back hall. John frowned, now, in confusion, only to have that confusion clear up seconds later when the sound of retching, that was not his own, met his ears.

Oh.

Sherlock had been right- the last thing John had eaten had been the Italian with Sherlock last night. And Sherlock also seemed to be right- it seemed to be a strain of food poisoning.

And, John wasn't a consulting detective but he could make a good, educated guess, it seemed that they both had it.

"Totally controllable," John muttered, sinking lower in his chair.

* * *

**Welcome to another multi-chapter. I can't stay away from sick!fics. So, for those who loved _Unforeseen Circumstances_, congratulations, there's something else here for you! xD I don't know how long this will last- I wouldn't be surprised if it only make to a three-shot stage, but if I can make a good, solid multi-chapter, I definitely will.**

**And, yes, my title is correct. I did it that way on purpose, which I'm sure you understand after reading this chapter.**

**So. Thoughts? I'd love to hear them, as usual. :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"What was that you were saying, Sherlock?" John muttered, blinking hard as Sherlock walked back into the room, although with much less grace than when he had left.

"I was saying that I was never going to eat out on your suggestion again," Sherlock replied, sinking onto the couch heavily.

John laughed quietly, despite the pain it brought. His whole body hurt. His stomach, mainly, from the constant heaving, although his head was definitely going up there on the pain range.

Sherlock didn't seem to be on a much better leg than John's right now, though.

No more than had John chuckled at Sherlock, the latter had scrambled back up and scrambled to the kitchen. Sink. Kitchen sink.

"_Sherlock!_" John hissed, sitting up slightly. He could handle dishes in the sink. He could handle _some_ experiments in the sink. But not Sherlock's vomit. Some things passed the line.

He wouldn't ponder why it took vomit over body parts in the sink to push him to that edge.

"Excuse my lack of... tact," came the slightly breathless response from the kitchen.

"You never have any tact," John griped in return, swallowing a bit when Sherlock threw up again. They couldn't start a chain reaction here lest it would never stop-

Oh, _nevermind_.

"Show... some restraint, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Ha! Listen to you, you great... brooding sod," John replied, resting his forehead on the rim of the bucket.

"Not brooding, just..." Sherlock trailed off unnaturally. John looked up in time to watch the unnaturally tall detective slide to the floor.

"Sherlock?" John pushed himself up from the chair, carefully but quickly setting the bucket on the floor. "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock was sitting with his back against the kitchen cupboard, his knees drawn to his chest. "Fine." His long arms wrapped around his knees and hugged them close.

"Sherlock, come on, you're going to..." John trailed off, licking his lips as he closed his eyes. It was all better in than out, naturally; he knew that, he was a doctor, but...

The shifting of movement brought John's attention away from the churning feeling in his stomach. Sherlock had tightened his grip around his knees, face slightly paler.

"Sherlock... you need to rest..."

"So do you, doctor," was Sherlock's biting reply. John reckoned that he probably would have said something else, had his fingers not tightened, impossibly, around his knees, his whole body tensing up. The detective squirmed around, scrambling to grab the countertop to pull himself up. John hurriedly helped Sherlock to his feet before the latter could get sick on the floor.

"Get...!" Sherlock hissed, when he wasn't otherwise occupied, his fingers clutching tightly at the sink.

"What?"

"Go!"

"Where?" John replied, not removing his hand from Sherlock's shoulder. If anything, he just tightened his grip. It seemed to be the wrong thing to do.

Sherlock shrugged John's hand off, flashing him a glare. "Away!"

"Okay, okay, fine," John replied quickly, backing off from the consulting detective and retreating back to his living room hideaway.

Barmy detective. Sherlock couldn't even handle the momentary display of weakness, even when it was in front of his flatmate. John realized that he felt just a little bit... offended. It was irrational and stupid-

Sherlock groaned quietly from the kitchen. John didn't immediately return to his friend's side, like the doctor blood within him was telling him to do, but he also didn't sit back down. Standing was not helping the stomach pain or the headache. He was acting like he was fine; he was putting on the facade of being fine. He definitely wasn't fine, but he had to try, for Sherlock.

"Did you take paracetamol yet, Sherlock?"

"Shut up," was the response, but it was too weak for John to be upset.

"Well, have you?"

"You can't keep anything down, why would I?" Sherlock muttered, his voice taking on a moaning tone as he wrenched the tap water on again. "It's likely that we have the same strain-" He broke off with a violent shudder than John could see even from the living room. Despite the fact that he was going through the same thing, he felt a pang of sympathy for the sick detective. The symptoms came on so fast, even for John, even for a consulting detective.

"You need to go to bed, Sherlock," John said, in the best doctor voice he could muster. "Rest... And stay hydrated, if you can."

"Follow your own advice," Sherlock advised, swallowing roughly as he hooked two mugs from the cupboard. "Clean mugs, John," he said, waving them briefly towards the doctor. "Not getting them from the sink..."

"Brilliant," John replied. Considering that Sherlock was vomiting in the sink... Well, at least he had enough common sense to get clean ones. He hesitantly joined Sherlock in the kitchen to take the mug of water offered to him. He took a careful sip of it, relishing in the coolness against his dry mouth. He was getting dehydrated, damn it, and he knew it. Hopefully the water stayed down. Hopefully.

John reached out a hand and pressed it against Sherlock's forehead when the latter was taking a drink. Sherlock flinched, backwards, out of reach, but not before John felt the fever on his skin.

"Take some paracetamol if you can keep water down within the next half hour," John muttered, but not before a particularly nasty abdominal cramp hit him. He took the kitchen chair rather abruptly, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his stomach like a child.

"I think the same can be said for you," Sherlock murmured in return, raising his mug to take another drink. He paused, though, before his grip slackened the mug and it went crashing to the floor; John flinched at the resulting crash and the shattering of glass over Sherlock's hasty footsteps to the bathroom.

Footsteps, from downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson's worried "Everything all right?" floating up the stairs.

Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Glorious Mrs. Hudson... who had the tendency to worry too much.

"Fine!" John replied too quickly, standing. The movement put him off, took every ounce of the pain in his stomach and forced it up. Screw the bucket. Now he was the one reduced to vomiting in the sink.

"Oh, no, you're ill? Have you taken some medicine? You'll need to keep hydrated."

"Yes... yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know," he murmured, straightening up to give a weary smile to their landlady.

"Oh, you look miserable. Come sit down." John would have taken her up on that offer if the sounds in the bathroom hadn't taken the center stage. "Sherlock's ill, too?"

John nodded slightly. "Food poisoning, Mrs. Hudson... We'll be okay," he murmured, although he wasn't entirely sure.

"I can get you something?" she replied worriedly, her concerned eyes looking from the hall to John.

John smiled weakly. "No, it's fine. I'll let you know if we need anything." He was happy that she was worried, but he infinitesimally happier when she was gone. Not to be rude... or anything.

He stumbled weakly to the bathroom- door was closed now- and knocked slightly. "Sherlock?" He received a moan, an actual moan, in reply. John took the liberty to let himself in this time. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He'd loosened his tie, leaving him looking rather disheveled with his hair a mess, a thin line of sweat on his forehead, along with the top buttons of his shirt being unbuttoned.

"Sherlock, come on- come on, go into bed, you can sleep there..." John muttered, ignoring the heaviness of his own limbs as he offered a hand for Sherlock. The consulting detective only turned his head away slightly, closing his eyes. "Sherlock-"

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, shrinking in on himself.

"Go to bed," John said in a tone of finality. Mainly, his stomach was starting to churn and he wanted Sherlock _out of the way_.

Sherlock suddenly took John's wrist, not his hand, but all the same, and John helped the consulting detective up. With minimal help, he managed to get Sherlock into his bedroom and onto the bed without any further trouble. Sherlock scooted back against his headboard and went back to his previous knee-hugging position, eyes staring at the far wall. John, with a sigh, took a weary seat on the edge of the bed as well.

"Well..."

"Well what," Sherlock replied in a clipped tone, never looking away from the wall.

"At least it'll make an interesting blog post," John whispered.

Sherlock only snorted in reply.

* * *

**Welcome to the terrible world of human illness, Sherlock. Take a deep breath and remember it; you won't want to experience it again.**

_**Totally Controlla-**_** is going to be a four-shot. A quadshot? Uhh... Yeah. (:**

**Keep your thoughts coming!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"John?"

"What?"

"You're not asleep?"

"I'm sitting up, Sherlock."

"You could sleep sitting up."

"Not on the edge of the bed."

Sherlock fell silent and John sighed, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. They had been sitting in Sherlock's room for the better part of two hours now. Periodically, they had had their own bouts of vomiting, although John's seemed to have come a rather abrupt end. Not the cramps, though. The cramps had gone nowhere. Or the headache, or the chills, or the fever, or the body aches. He was so damn achy that he couldn't sleep. Not that he had really _tried_, because he hadn't been able to bring himself to move away from Sherlock's room (which was within ten feet of the bathroom) and to his room (which was a whole lot of feet from the bathroom).

"Why haven't you slept?" John asked, drawing the subject of his thoughts away from illness, even though everything here would wind back up to it.

"Ill."

"I think I noticed that, Sherlock." John looked at Sherlock, and for one, wild moment, John could have sworn that the detective looked almost abashedly uncomfortable. Sherlock shifted his weight as it were, knees still drawn to his chest.

"No, John, still _ill_," he said, emphasizing the word as if it could change the meaning. And it did. John understood.

"Sherlock, if you're still nauseous, you really need to get it out of your system," John replied tiredly, watching the detective swallow.

"You can say that," Sherlock replied dully.

"I was sick before you were," John started, but trailed off in a sigh. It was too much hassle to argue with Sherlock, even more so when they were both sick.

Sherlock only rolled his weight again, to which John was sorely tempted to demand that the detective stop _fidgeting_, before that certain man launched himself off the bed and ran for the bathroom. John resisted the very childish urge to press his hands over his ears- he'd had enough of vomiting for a lifetime.

"John- how do I make it stop?" Sherlock demanded, in a voice that John would have normally said sounded like a whine. Sherlock didn't whine. But he was coming pretty damn close to it.

"You can't, Sherlock." John reached for the bottle of water that he had given Sherlock, which hadn't even been opened. "You need to stay hydrated."

"But it'll just cause me to vomit more!"

John fixed him with a glare. "Fine, then. But don't come complaining to me."

Sherlock licked his lips and shook his head, taking the step from the hallway into his bedroom. And then he was crumpling to the ground, all so suddenly.

John's instincts took over and he threw himself to his feet to catch the lanky detective. Sherlock's weight, combined with John's still-turned-to-jelly legs, did absolutely nothing to assist. They didn't hit the floor but instead fell into the wall, narrowly missing the doorway, John's breath leaving him with a soft gasp from the mild impact slash weight combo.

"Sherlock," he breathed, hooking his arms around Sherlock's torso. "Sherlock- _come on_," he hissed, half-helping, half-throwing Sherlock onto the duvet. Sherlock didn't resurface, only mumbled something that was lost within the blankets. John stumbled the few feet to the bed, flopping down as well. He was panting and the nausea that seemed to have left had come back in a roiling sensation, although he knew all hope of walking the few feet into the bathroom was crushed. "Sherlock, you okay?" He didn't receive a response and he sighed heavily, swallowing as he forced down a wave of nausea again. "You're not getting... not getting any better, Sherlock," he murmured, choking the words out. The small, yet far too rapid, movement had left him completely winded. Not to mention the pain. He had his eyes closed against tears of pain, or possible just watering eyes, arm drawn over them.

John became aware of Sherlock moving at one point or another, sometime when he had gotten his breath back a bit. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock curled up in the fetal position, an arm drawn over his face and the other around his stomach.

"Sherlock... Sherlock," John rasped. Sherlock moved his arm minutely, opened his eyes slightly, a whole new emotion visible there: pain. "Sherlock, you _have_ to stay hydrated... This is probably... probably why you're more ill than I am. Because you don't take care of yourself..." John was babbling. He knew he was babbling, could tell even more so because he was still short on breath. In truth, he was nervous. Nervous because Sherlock had actually given into the pain, and John could see it. Sherlock never let anyone see anything.

"And your body's too hot..." He slowly propped himself up to touch-take Sherlock's temperature, snaking his fingers under Sherlock's arm. "It's imperative..." He faltered slightly when he found Sherlock to be warmer than before. "... that you drink something."

"Don't touch me," Sherlock hissed, biting the three words off on one breath. However venomous Sherlock was trying to be, however, he was failing spectacularly. John had seen into the pain riddling his mind. He knew.

Painstakingly, John sat up. Every nerve ending in his body was protesting. Not to mention his stomach. His own fever had probably gone up as well, and he knew that it was necessary to avoid physical activities when one had a fever, such as, oh, being body slammed into a wall by a too tall detective. This didn't bode well for him. But it wasn't boding well for Sherlock, either.

He managed to stumble his way into the bathroom, to grab the thermometer and a rag and douse the latter in cold water. He contemplated the toilet for a brief moment, but decided to go against his own advice (because he _had_ had enough of vomiting for a day) and stumbled back to the bedroom.

Condition? Rapidly deteriorating.

Prognosis? Not good for either of them, if they didn't get rest.

Likelihood of rest? Zero to none.

John sank back onto the bed heavily and gripped Sherlock's wrist, pulling the detective's arm away from his face. Sherlock's eyes immediately opened again but John didn't deter from wiping the sweat from his flatmate's forehead. Sherlock, weakened as he was, had other plans, though, it seemed.

He jerked backwards quicker than was healthy for a man of his state, only to come to a muffled-moaned stop seconds later.

"Sherlock, stop moving..." John muttered, his fingers having snatched at Sherlock's shirt the instant he moved. "Please..." He relented in his doctoral duties, but draped the cold cloth on Sherlock's forehead all the same. Sherlock didn't respond to that.

John allowed himself to hit the duvet again, sighing weakly. Maybe Sherlock was right (and he almost usually was)- eating was bad.

* * *

John found himself waking to pressure on his forehead. He shifted to dislodge it, was met by the barrage of pain that he was hoping had been a dream, and stiffened with a low moan. Twenty four hours hadn't gone by then. He was pretty sure that this would clear up- unconditionally, for the most part- in twenty four hours. He had fallen asleep at one point... but the pain wasn't gone still now. He wished he would have stayed asleep.

"John?"

The voice was familiar, but not Sherlock's, and John sat up rather abruptly. The world ran into a dizzying tumult of colours and a flash of heat encompassed him- still had the fever, then. Wonderful.

"Careful there," warned the voice, hands reaching out to his shoulders to steady him.

John recognized that voice... It had taken him a few seconds, but he had. "Greg...?"

Lestrade smiled down at him apologetically, removing his hands and holding them up. "Mrs. Hudson let me up saying that you two were sick, but I didn't expect this."

"Oh... Right, yeah." John took a glance around him, realizing that he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's room, on Sherlock's bed, with Sherlock curled up in his fetal position, but clearly asleep, next to him. "Oh," he stated again, rather blandly.

"He's fine," Greg said, following his gaze. "At least, I think he is. Hasn't been awake." He didn't make the expected comment, as though he thought John and Sherlock sleeping in the same bed was completely natural. Unfortunately, John realized that was probably spot-on. Either that, or Lestrade just knew that they were too sick to care. John hoped it was the second option.

"Oh, God..." John muttered, hesitantly attempting to stretch. Every movement brought on a new round of pain, but thankfully no nausea. He looked again at Sherlock, noting the detective's complexion.

"Your fever's gone down, but it's by no means gone." John looked back at Greg at the DI's words. Greg gave that sheepish smile again. "Thermometer," was all he said, motioning towards the nightstand where it sat.

John nodded slightly. "Sherlock?"

"I haven't attempted that one yet," Lestrade replied.

John nodded again. "Right..." he murmured, attempting to stand so he could grab the thermometer and take Sherlock's temperature himself.

Greg stopped himself. "Wait, wait- what do you want, I'll get it."

"Thermometer." Lestrade grabbed it off the nightstand, passing it over. "It's been sterilized?" John asked.

"O' course."

John muttered a thanks, shifting to- carefully, mind- place the thermometer in sleeping Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock didn't rouse from his sleep. John breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

When the reading was done, and John had seen that Sherlock's temperature wasn't dangerously high, he grabbed the rag with all intentions of going to re-cool it. However, Lestrade was still looming in his way and he just passed the rag off with a very abashed smile, hesitant but thankful, and let Lestrade do it for him.

"So, how long have we been asleep?" John murmured, after he had gotten Sherlock settled again. He was much more comfortable with the sickness now, despite the fact that he should have been uncomfortable with Lestrade taking care of him. He found, however, he didn't mind. They owed him one. (They owed him a lot, actually.)

"I've been here a couple hours. Made the most of your utilities and the marathon of crap telly running."

John laughed quietly. "Well, has to be better than watching us sleep."

"Nah, I don't mind. I take care of the wife when she's ill-" Lestrade paused. "I think I've just made this awkward." They both chuckled at that.

Fifteen minutes brought a much more mobile John to the living room, the telly flicked on but the volume nearly muted, and a glass of ginger ale for the sickened doctor. They were chatting, confined to the living room, nonetheless, but chatting about idle stuff that John was sure Sherlock would call dull. It took John fifteen minutes to realize that Lestrade had probably not come on a social visit.

"Was there something you needed?" he asked abruptly, looking from his mug to Greg. Greg looked away from the telly, looking at John in confusion. "Well, you normally don't come unless you need Sherlock..."

"Oh, that," Lestrade said, looking back to the telly in favour of whatever infomercial was playing. "Sherlock said that I could rely on him for finding the details of a cold case, and told me to stop by today." The infomercial flickered off and Lestrade looked back at John. "But, I find both of you indisposed so I decided to stick around and make sure you got better."

"Ah, that made your day, right?" John joked, sipping at his ginger ale.

"Well, at least I'm not dealing with stiffs," Lestrade replied wisely.

* * *

**Sherlock is rapidly deteriorating and Doctor John knows it. And I got to throw some caring Lestrade (a new weakness of mine...) into the mix. Hopefully you guys are liking it!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"John?"

John, who had been unwisingly nodding off in the chair, snapped to attention at his name. He recognized the voice and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. It had been hours- hours since Lestrade had woken him up. The DI was actually passed out in the chair designated as Sherlock's at the moment. John hadn't had the heart to wake up, especially when John actually noticed the time. He'd lost track of the entire day. That should have alarmed him. It didn't.

"Sherlock?" John replied, poking his head around the corner of Sherlock's room. He was still somewhat unsteady on his feet, but he was, by all means, in a better state than before. He leaned against the door frame of Sherlock's room, eyeing the man who was sitting up, holding the rag in his hand.

"What is this rubbish?" Sherlock grumbled, waving the dry rag towards John.

"It was for your fever." John pushed away from the door frame, walking over to Sherlock.

"I see you're feeling better."

"Remarkably," John agreed. "And you?" He took the rag from Sherlock and pressed his hand against the detective's forehead instead. "You're still warm... Probably a low-grade."

Sherlock nodded slightly, although moving away. "Yes... Most likely one that will be gone within two to three hours."

"Of rest," John added quickly.

Sherlock stood slowly, John noticing only just when the detective tried to hide a flinch.

"You need to get some paracetamol in your system."

"Going to, thanks." Sherlock stumbled, catching himself on the bathroom door.

"You need help?"

"Of course not," Sherlock fired back, wrenching the door open and stepping into the bathroom. "I'm fine, perfectly fine."

"Okay, well, you're still going to have to thank Lestrade."

Sherlock paused in the movement of re-closing the door. "What?"

"Lestrade's been here. Taking care of us. He's asleep out there now," John said, thumbing towards the living room. Sherlock looked in the general direction of the living room before frowning slightly, shutting the bathroom door in John's face. "Oi, thanks for that," John said, frowning at the now-closed door.

He meandered lazily back into the kitchen, grabbing the ginger ale from the refrigerator and pouring himself another glass. Tea sounded good, but also too much of a hassle, and he was sticking with the ale- just in case.

He went back in the living room, sipping at his drink as he walked over to Lestrade. He carefully dislodged the DI's mobile from the sleeping man's hand and, choosing to ignore the unsent text to his wife, powered it off before setting it on the table. He would have roused the Inspector had it not been so late- it would have been remarkably pointless to send the Inspector out now, not to mention just plain rude.

John doubled back to Sherlock's room to wait for the consulting detective to re-emerge, flopping backwards onto the bed. At least he felt a little better. For that, he was grateful.

* * *

He woke up to sunlight. His initial reaction was to roll over and cover his face. Until he realized- sunlight!

He sat up rather quickly, looking immediately towards his alarm. But, wait. This wasn't his room. It took him a slow moment to realize that he was in Sherlock's room. Was this becoming some sort of (terrible) habit...? He looked around quietly, but Sherlock wasn't in the room.

Blearily, he stretched his arms above his head and stood, ignoring the small aches still pervading his body. Otherwise, he seemed to feel much better, and was glad that he had spent a few, long hours _asleep _with this illness.

Knowing that he was fine, he became interested with knowing if Sherlock was. He padded into the hallway; the bathroom door was open, no Sherlock. So, that left the kitchen or the living room. A mop of dark curls appeared past the frame of the hallway wall, followed by Sherlock's intent gaze as the detective leaned back in his chair. Kitchen, then.

"Finally up," Sherlock said, in a sort of question without the tone of questioning.

"Yeah, uhm, sorry about that," John murmured, drawing his fingers through his hair. "Sick and all... Did you get some sleep, uh, regardless? On the couch?"

"I repositioned your body and went back to sleep upon my own duvet, thank you."

"We're making a disturbing habit of sleeping together," John muttered, prying the fridge open.

"No, _you're_ making a disgusting habit of sleeping with me," Sherlock replied.

"I haven't done it on purpose. I'm sick and tired and-" A snort from the living room brought John to a complete stop, his fingers slipping on the milk. The carton hit the countertop and graciously didn't topple over, but John's attention was on the sleeping figure in the living room. He had totally forgotten about Lestrade. "He's been here all night?" John whispered, looking back at Sherlock.

"Don't feel obliged to lower your voice, he snores loud enough to cover any trace of communication."

John blinked, going back to his milk. "What time it is?"

"Just past five-thirty."

"Oh. Should wake him up... he'll be late for work shortly..." John murmured over readying himself a teacup for tea. "Do you want anything? Oh, I meant to ask- you okay? You seem to be feeling better."

"I'm fine."

John finished making his tea and took a seat at the table next to Sherlock. They were quiet for some time, only the snores belonging to the Detective Inspector breaking the silence.

"Rough night," John commented, sipping at his tea. Sherlock 'hmph'ed in return, John taking that as a confirmation.

More silence, more snoring. John didn't know how long it took them to start laughing. John didn't know how long it took Lestrade to wake up and realize that they were laughing at him.

"Oi, what you laughing at?" Lestrade grumbled, sitting up straighter and looking very self conscious. "Actually, what am I still doing here? I see you two are fine."

It took them, namely John, the time that it took Lestrade to vanish, glaringly, into the bathroom, come back out, and pick up Sherlock's untouched cup of tea, to stop laughing. Even then, they, namely John, were still chuckling as Lestrade looked down at them (somewhat fondly, John reckoned) over his teacup.

"You two are mad," Lestrade stated, shaking his head slightly with a smile on his face.

"What made you figure that out?" Sherlock asked quickly, his own sardonic smile on his face. One detective looked at the other and John watched them pass a moment in silence. Lestrade smiled faintly, a soft smile that didn't speak of real humour or amusement. John frowned slightly, wondering what that was all about, before Sherlock reached up and took the teacup from Lestrade. "Stop drinking my tea."

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he went back to his tea.

* * *

**5th August **

**Interesting Happenings**

Well, it's happened, folks. Sherlock and I got ourselves deathly ill- at the same exact time. To save you guys from the terrible mental pictures, I won't go into the gory details. But we have some good friends who watch over us. I wouldn't trade any of the time with them for anything.

P.S. Sherlock, just face it. Some things are just totally uncontroll-

_[Blog post unfinished]_

* * *

**And there we have it. I'll probably start another sick!fic just because I can't stay away from them. xD I hope you enjoyed it. I found a new weakness- caring Lestrade- and got to have another giggly moment. It's fine. All fine. **

**Now to thank you all for following the story! I hope you liked it. Thank you for the follows, favourites, and reviews! Like I said, look out for another sick!fic. Thanks again!**


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